Weapons (no, not like that) 2/4

A

The whir of brushes on the skin and its circular motion transfixes me. This is my save point. 

No one can see my piercings behind this mask although it is almost inferred by the rest of me: blonde streaks in my hair, aggressive tattoos, strange glasses. I have gotten used to relying on my eyes to get me everywhere, as knowing what the bottom of my face looks like has become a privilege in recent years.

  It kind of defeats the purpose of having the piercings then, I huff to myself. 

I sit after class behind the drum kit, something I never thought I would do, “jamming” with strangers, regardless of what they can or cannot see. New friends, I correct myself. This time, see, I am older and I will make friends easily. I will be loud and obnoxious, speak eloquently and a lot, and everyone will love me the way God intended them to. I will not make the same mistakes.

The music program here inhabits the business building, all the way at the top. So when we rush to class we have to stop at every floor and squeeze in with marketing students, all dressed as if they are going to job interviews. The classrooms have gigantic windows opening onto downtown, letting us see the traffic jams up the street and the police making arrests at the metro station below. 

The strangers/new friends call “All Blues”. I don't really know what “calling” is. I don’t really know what “shedding” is either but they're talking about it a lot. I tell them sheepishly that I’m not familiar with the song. The bassist looks at me and says:

“It's a blues in 3. Listen to the Miles version.”

He taps his foot, 123-223, and we go. I’ve never played jazz in ¾ but I’m feeling it out. I let my ears listen for the melody, the harmony, and my heart is beating so loud that I let it guide my rhythms. I believe I am faking it well enough. They are not exchanging those looks my old bandmates used to give each other. I soon learn that that is called a “vibe”, and it is not good, my god, no, it is bad. 

We decide to do this after every class. They like me! A win for God, a win for me. I am speaking confidently, I am playing louder. I feel a buzz coming from deep in my stomach and I can’t stop crying of happiness. I get to campus early before class and I stay until it is dark out. 

A week later I am seated at a jazz bar waiting for a professor to take the stage and blow me away. A big group of us are all seated in a series of four smaller tables smushed together. I order a pina colada for $14. A boy from our class joins us at the last minute and slides seamlessly into the seat in front of me, as if He was always there. He smiles at me and His teeth are remarkably perfect. He knows everything about this music, He tells me, “it’s the love of my life”. I say “I don't really listen to that much jazz” flippantly, expecting him to say what most guys say to me (that “it's overrated anyways”), but instead He scolds me. He points to the dozens of records framed on the wall and says:

“You’re in jazz school. You should know all these records by heart.” 

A month later I am lying on His chest as He plays me record after record. He doesn’t see or hear my little cries. This music is so beautiful and unique and interesting and deep, so moving and dizzying. As Jaco Pastorius sings through his bass on “Midwestern Night’s Dream”, I accept my fate loving this man who will never feel towards me what I desperately need. I accept my fate in this community of musicians all striving to revitalize something so clearly left behind in the mud. 

So I learn the records on the wall. I practice in the same room everyday, running the same drills and transcribing the usual solos. I am paying my dues the way I should've been for years. When I leave the practice room to rest on the singular couch near the windows, I am greeted and joined by my best friends. This is everything, I realize. This is what it is all for. All of my anxiety and worries and embarrassments happened to get me to these moments.  Of course, I know the disillusionment will come soon. I can feel myself getting tired of the chaos, I can feel my eyes wander for something new and shiny. But for now it is everything, and my best friend and I walk down to the Korean grocery store and buy salmon onigiri. It costs $2.50.